


Prove It

by Anonymous



Series: Clowntown Kinkmeme Fills [9]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 12:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30139530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You wanna prove me wrong so badly that you’ll suck my dick?” Eddie asks incredulously.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Clowntown Kinkmeme Fills [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164656
Comments: 10
Kudos: 241
Collections: Clowntown Kink Meme 2021





	Prove It

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [clowntown2021](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/clowntown2021) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Richie got a “Best Blowjob Giver” trophy as a breakup gift from an ex. After Derry 2: The Electric Boogaloo, Eddie sees this trophy in Richie’s house and calls bullshit on the title. Richie offers to prove it to him and before he knows it, Eddie says okay.
> 
> You know... something two platonic, totally not in love people do

Richie doesn’t actually use his spare room for much of anything other than storing random shit he’s accumulated over the fifteen years he’s been in L.A.. He doesn’t really have a ton of friends, or at least not the kind of friends who sleep over at his place. He periodically goes in there to air it out—and, okay, to put clean sheets on the bed before Eddie came to stay with him, he’s not a _complete_ animal—but that’s about it.

Point is, he’s completely forgotten about the trophy by the time Eddie schleps all of his luggage down the hall, grumbling all the way about planes and germs and idiot L.A. drivers and pulls the door firmly shut behind him, probably so he can sanitize his entire body in peace. Richie shakes his head fondly and wanders back out to see about dinner, which means he’s most of the way back to the kitchen by the time Eddie yells, “What the _FUCK_ is this?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Richie mutters, turning on his heel as the door slams back open, his mind overtaken by visions of Eddie finding a dead mouse or something under his dresser and immediately hauling ass back to a hotel and never speaking to Richie again.

When Eddie emerges from the bedroom, though, it’s with a large, shiny, suspiciously phallic object clutched in his hand and an apoplectic look on his face.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he hisses.

Richie blinks at him. The thing he’s holding is not, as Richie was momentarily concerned, a dildo. It’s a trophy, chintzy and gold-plated with a black plastic base.

“Uh,” he says. “For once, no. What…?” He trails off, wincing, when Eddie holds it up to display the inscription. “ _Oh._ Look, Eds—”

“Why the fuck does this say _Richie Tozier, Blowjob World Champion_?”

“Well,” Richie says. Mortifyingly, his cheeks are warm. “World champion is an exaggeration. Probably.”

“ _Richie._ ”

“Dude, I forgot it was in there. I wasn’t actually trying to fuck with you, okay? I’m sorry.”

Eddie gives him a narrow-eyed look. “I don’t believe you. Why the fuck do you even have this?”

“I had it made special order in honor of—” He stops. Eddie looks about half a second away from blowing a gasket. “No, look, one of my exes gave it to me, like, years ago. I swear I totally forgot about it.”

“Your ex gave you a trophy for—for—”

“Yeah, it was a breakup gift,” Richie says, when it becomes clear that Eddie’s not going to be able to spit it out. And then, because he’s _him_ , he keeps fucking talking. “He said that was the only thing about me he’d miss. I’m so fucking glad I already told you I’m gay, by the way. This would be the most embarrassing way ever to come out to someone.”

Let alone the love of his fucking life, standing there flushed and flustered in the hallway and holding the evidence that at least one person thinks Richie’s mouth is good for something other than spewing bullshit.

Eddie’s mouth twitches, finally. He sets the trophy down on the hall table. “I’m sure you could think of something worse.”

“Yeah, probably,” Richie says, because it’s true. He can pretty much always find a way to make a mortifying situation worse. This one at least seems salvageable. “You hungry? I was going to order sushi.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah, fine. Get me dragon rolls, would you?”

“You're living on the edge here. Wait, wait, so is this an actual mid-life crisis? Are you going to go out and get a tongue piercing and start dating a twenty-year-old? Because I don’t know if I’m at all fucking qualified to deal with that shit.”

“ _No,_ I just tried them for the first time like a week ago and they tasted good and I’m trying to eat things that taste good since it turns out I’m not actually fucking allergic to shrimp or like practically anything else after all, it’s not a fucking mid-life crisis, Jesus _Christ_ , Rich.”

It comes out all in one breath. Eddie is glaring, but his mouth is pinched like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Who are you and what have you done with Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie asks wonderingly, and goes to find his take-out menus before Eddie can throw something at him.

* * *

They get all the way through dinner and a couple of beers before Eddie sets his half-empty bottle down and says, “Okay, but seriously, what the fuck was up with that trophy?”

It’s as abrupt and graceless as a charging bull, which is how Richie knows that Eddie’s been thinking about it. That’s the kind of thing that he could easily read into, if he let himself.

“Seems kind of self-explanatory, honestly,” he says instead, just to be an asshole.

“ _What_ part of any of that is self-explanatory?”

“Uh, that I give really good head? I don’t know, man, it’s pretty much the only positive I bring to a relationship. That and my massive—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Eddie sighs. Richie grins at him. Equilibrium re-established.

Except then Eddie adds, “You can’t actually be _that_ good at it.”

“Excuse the fuck out of me?”

“I’m just saying,” Eddie says. There’s a challenging glint in his eye that means he’s definitely fucking with Richie right now, which, yeah, Richie probably deserves.

“Well, Brian…” he trails off, squinting, then gives up. “Whatever the fuck his last name was, this was like ten years ago anyway—who definitely had more firsthand experience than you do—would beg to differ.”

“Maybe he just had low standards.”

Richie claps a hand to his chest. “Straight through the heart! Jesus. I thought Bev was the sharpshooter. What, do you want me to prove it to you? Because I will.”

And, look, the thing is—

The _thing is,_ he expects Eddie to squawk indignantly and change the subject. That’s how it’s always gone with them, when Richie’s flirting starts to shove up against the line of plausible deniability. He doesn’t expect Eddie to stare at him, open his mouth, shut it, and then say, “Are you fucking with me?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, and then because he can never resist shooting himself in the foot. “I’ll do it, though. If you want.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m serious. This is a matter of honor now. My reputation is on the line.”

“You wanna prove me wrong so badly that you’ll suck my dick?” Eddie asks. He’s as red as a beet and his voice drops to a scandalized whisper on the last words.

Richie bites down on a bubble of semi-hysterical laughter and lifts his beer to his lips. Eddie watches his mouth as he drinks, and a warm, dangerous thrill unfurls in the pit of his stomach. “Eds, I would do _so_ much worse than that to prove you wrong.”

“Okay, fine,” Eddie says abruptly. “Go ahead. Prove me wrong.”

Richie nearly drops his beer. He catches the bottle before it can tip over and spill beer all over the place, rights it, and stares at Eddie. “Are you fucking serious?”

“That’s what I thought.” Eddie leans back in his seat, folding his arms. “You’re all talk, Trashmouth.”

“You do recognize the essential futility of playing gay chicken with a guy who’s actually gay, right?”

“And yet here you are. Chickening out.”

And what the fuck is Richie supposed to say to that? _Actually the problem is that I’m in love with you and I don’t think I can suck your dick without feeling some kind of way about it?_ Yeah, fuck that.

 _You did this to yourself, genius_ , he thinks. Out loud, he says, “I didn’t say I was chickening out. You want to do it right now?”

“Oh,” Eddie says, and for a second Richie thinks he’s finally going to put a stop to this. Then his chin lifts, his jaw firms, and Richie’s stomach swoops like he’s on a roller-coaster a second before Eddie says, “Yeah. If you want to, now’s good.”

“Well, pencil me into your schedule, Eduardo,” Richie says, which barely makes any sense at all, but he’s fairly sure there’s no blood left in his brain right now. His ears are buzzing, and he’s strangely aware of the sound of his own breathing, the faint crack of his knees as he stands. The living room is full of warm late-afternoon light, catching the golden undertones of Eddie’s hair and his dark eyes as he lifts his head to watch Richie cross the room toward him.

Richie scans his face for any sign of nerves and finds none. Eddie’s watching him with a look of wide-eyed anticipation, the way he always watched when they were kids and Richie was about to do something outrageous. It always made Richie _want_ to be outrageous, and apparently that effect hasn’t changed in thirty years.

God, he’s so fucked. Screwed over by his own uncontrollable need to peacock for Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

Eddie takes a sharp breath when Richie goes to his knees in front of him, like he was still expecting a last minute _‘Psych!’_

He still doesn’t look nervous, though. He’s watching intently as Richie settles both hands on the tops of his thighs, warm and well-muscled under the rough denim, but he doesn’t look nervous.

“Tap out anytime you want,” Richie says, and his voice has already gone rough and quiet. Eddie takes another sharp breath, then shakes his head, slowly and deliberately.

“I’m not gonna,” he murmurs. “You can.”

“Nah, dude, I got something to prove, remember?”

“How could I fucking forget— _ah_ ,” Eddie says, a little half-swallowed breathless noise, when Richie slides his hands up his thighs and grips him tight by the hips, pulling him forward until he’s on the edge of the chair, legs spread, Richie bracketed between his knees. Eddie’s hands land on the cushion, knuckles going white as he digs his fingers in. If this were—something else, something other than what it is, Richie would grab his hands and put them on his shoulders, or in his hair—if this were something else, they would have already kissed.

That’s not what this is, but he can’t resist turning his head to nuzzle at Eddie’s denim-clad thigh. Something sharp and hot is winding through him.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s just me.”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Eddie says, half-laughing, choked and uneven, and that makes Richie feel better about all this insanity, oddly enough. The fact that they’re both playing with fire here.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “So relax. Or tap out, if you want to.”

He waits while Eddie takes two deep breaths, and then says, “I don’t want to.”

“Okay,” Richie murmurs, and presses another kiss to the inside of Eddie’s thigh before sliding his hands up under his untucked shirt. There’s bare warm skin underneath, taut muscle, the faint scratch of hair. Nipples pulling into tight little knots when Richie rubs his thumbs over them before dragging his hands back down to undo Eddie’s belt. He pulls it loose and undoes the top button of his jeans, then leans forward to suck a kiss in the hollow beside his hip bone.

Eddie breathes out sharply above him, his hips shifting, and Richie grins against his skin, triumphant, and does it again. He tugs down the zipper and rubs his thumb over the thickening shape of Eddie’s cock through his very sensible blue cotton boxer briefs. Feels Eddie shudder.

“Gonna make you eat your words,” he murmurs. It comes out breathless, eager, _hungry_ instead of teasing like he meant it to. He almost wants to wince at the sound of it.

One of Eddie’s hands finds its way into his hair, tugging lightly, sending prickles of heat down Richie’s spine. “So fucking _do_ it already.”

Richie strokes him again, deliberately slow, dragging cloth, feeling him get harder. “Maybe I’m trying to draw out the suspense.”

“I swear to god, Rich, would you just pl—” Eddie breaks off before he can get the word out. When Richie glances up at him, he’s red-faced, chewing on his lower lip. Beautiful.

“Please?” Richie asks innocently, and nuzzles his mouth against Eddie’s dick, nipping gently at the head through the thin cotton. Eddie’s fingers tighten in his hair.

He’d kind of like to drag it out further, see if he can actually get Eddie to beg, but he also doesn’t want to risk Eddie getting pissed off and putting a stop to this yet, so he pulls back slightly, sitting back on his heels. “Okay, here, lift up a little.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t actually suck your dick through your pants, dude. I’m good, but I’m not _that_ good. Lift up, help me get ‘em off.”

Eddie huffs a burst of startled-sounding laughter, and then plants his feet on the floor, shifting his hips up enough for Richie to slide his jeans and boxers down. He pulls them all the way off, leaving Eddie looking debauched and slightly, endearingly absurd in his green polo shirt and nothing else, his lean, muscular runner’s legs spread to let Richie fit back between them. His cock is flushed and perfect like everything else about him. Richie’s mouth waters at the sight of it, but he doesn’t start there; instead, he runs his hands over Eddie’s thighs and pushes them farther apart, then leans in to bite gently at the soft skin where his leg hair turns sparse and fine.

“Oh,” Eddie says, soft. His fingers thread through Richie’s hair again, then settle there, a warm steady weight. They tighten when Richie bites him again, a little sharper, experimental. His hips shift. “Oh _fuck._ ”

Score. He’s all the way hard now, fluid beading at the head of his cock. Richie leans in to lick it up with the flat of his tongue, fits his mouth over the head and sucks lightly, then pulls off to resume kissing down Eddie’s other thigh.

“Ohhh, you fucker,” Eddie murmurs, breathless. Richie snickers against his skin, then bites him again. “Are you just gonna keep leaving hickeys on me all afternoon, or are you gonna—”

“What?” Richie asks, curling his fingers around Eddie’s cock. Not quite stroking, just holding on, rubbing little circles with his thumb underneath the head. He feels as giddy and wired and reckless as if he just did a line of coke. Eddie’s got little purpling marks blooming down the inside of his thighs and he’s hot and hard and leaking just from this. It’s intoxicating. “Something you want me to do?”

“God, you’re such an— _oh!_ ”

He pulls off, but keeps his hand moving on Eddie’s spit-slick cock: slow, lingering strokes. “I’m such a what, Eds?”

“ _Richie._ ”

“That’s my name,” Richie says, grinning, and sucks him back down.

He _is_ good at this, and he knows it, but it’s less to do with any secret techniques than the fact that Richie is and has always been an incurable people-pleaser. He pays attention. He’s paying attention to Eddie now: the way his hips twitch abortively when Richie sinks all the way down, the strangled noises he makes when Richie slides his tongue under his glans, tasting the bitter salt of his precome. His hand keeps fisting and relaxing in Richie’s hair, like he’s trying not to pull it but keeps forgetting himself.

It’s fucking hot. It’s _always_ hot, and he always likes it: the weight of a cock on his tongue and the ache in his jaw and the way it feels to make someone lose it. And this is _Eddie_ coming apart by slow degrees as Richie works him to the edge and then backs off, again and again, until Eddie is gasping, his fingers tangled tight in Richie’s hair. His cock pulses when Richie moans.

It occurs to Richie that he’s actually in danger of coming in his pants like a fucking teenager if he keeps this up much longer. This is the culmination of all his adolescent jerk-off fantasies and quite a few of his adult ones, so maybe that’s to be expected, but still. As a matter of pride, he refuses to come before Eddie does.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie murmurs over his head when he sinks all the way down and then slides back up, curling his tongue over the glans. “Oh, fuck, _fuck_ , Richie, I’m gonna—”

His fingers tighten in Richie’s hair like he’s trying to pull him off, and Richie moans and sinks farther down, bracing one hand on Eddie’s warm thigh and cupping his balls with his other where they’re drawn up tight. He presses just behind them with two fingers and swallows around Eddie’s cock and Eddie arches up and comes down his throat with a broken shout.

It takes him a couple of breathless seconds to loosen his death grip in Richie’s hair enough that Richie can pull off and rest his cheek against his thigh, taking deep breaths. He can feel the slick drag of his cock inside his underwear. His heart is beating so fast that he feels lightheaded.

“Fuck,” Eddie says finally. His fingers stroke through Richie’s hair, soothing and apologetic. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”

Richie laughs raggedly against his knee. “What the fuck for?”

“What the—” Eddie breaks off, sliding his fingers over Richie’s lips, and Richie kisses them before he can think better of it. Eddie takes a sharp breath and murmurs, “Oh.”

 _Oh_. Richie winces, but before he can get himself together to say anything, Eddie’s hands are under his arms, hauling at him in a way that’s actually kind of painful until Richie manages to get his feet under him and help. He ends up half-sprawled across Eddie’s lap on the armchair that’s definitely too small for both of them, Eddie’s hands fisted in his shirt, Eddie’s eyes dark and wide in the instant before he hauls Richie into a hard kiss.

It’s clumsy and mis-aimed. Their teeth clack together before Richie manages to adjust the angle and it is still, without a doubt, the best kiss he’s ever gotten in his life. The one he’s been fucking dreaming of since he was thirteen, so maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise that nothing else could ever compare. Eddie is still half-naked underneath him and his hands are warm, dragging at Richie’s shirt and then sliding up underneath it to rest on bare skin before slipping around to the front. He takes a quick breath against Richie’s mouth, then reaches to cup him through his jeans. Richie lets out an utterly embarrassing whine.

“Okay,” Eddie mumbles. He’s resting his forehead against Richie’s and he sort of sounds like he’s psyching himself up. “Okay, okay.”

“You don’t have to do anything for me,” Richie manages, when Eddie doesn’t move. It doesn’t come out quite as steady as he’d like it to, but in his defense Eddie is still touching his dick. Reluctantly, he starts to pull away. “Seriously. I can just—”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, and kisses him again. “I want to, I just haven’t—”

He huffs out a frustrated breath, then gets to work on the buckle of Richie’s belt. It takes him a few fumbling tries to get it undone; he gets the button and zipper open, pushes his hand inside, then pauses.

“Oh, you have to be fucking kidding,” he mumbles against Richie’s mouth.

“What?” Richie says, pulling back. “I meant it, you really don’t have to—”

“Not _that_ , shut up,” Eddie says. He firms his grip on Richie’s cock, then strokes tentatively. The angle’s not great and it’s a little dry, and Richie is still going to come embarrassingly fast if he keeps this up.

“What, then?” he asks, breathless.

“I just—” Eddie presses a scowling kiss to his mouth, then shoves at Richie’s jeans and boxers until they’re down around his hips. He dips his head to stare between them, at his fingers curled around Richie’s cock. He strokes them up tentatively, like he’s tracing out the shape of it. “God, you fuckhead. I can’t believe you were telling the truth this whole time, I’m so pissed off right now, you have no idea.”

 _Oh._ Richie wheezes laughter against his cheek. “Yeah, you really seem pissed off.”

“I _am_ ,” Eddie says, but if it’s true he’s got a funny way of showing it. He pulls back just enough to lick the palm of his hand before resuming. It’s casually filthy in a way that Richie would never have expected from Eddie but maybe should have. Eddie with his competitive streak and his endless need to prove something. Eddie with his pants off and his softening cock still flushed against his thigh, his hand slick and wet and moving at just the right speed and his rough voice when he pulls Richie into another kiss and murmurs, “Come on, Rich, come for me, I want to see it—”

And Richie’s gone, thrusting into Eddie’s hand and burying his face into Eddie’s throat to muffle his groan as he comes. Eddie gentles him through it and doesn’t pull off until Richie feels completely boneless, sagging on top of Eddie in a sticky, ungainly sprawl of limbs.

Eddie worms his hand out from between them, then wipes it unceremoniously on Richie’s shirt. Richie snorts into his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” Eddie says, and kisses his temple. “So.”

“So,” Richie says. He’s suddenly very aware of how naked they both are. Eddie’s bare thighs beneath him, his own jeans bunched ungracefully between his knees. He’s not actually sure he’ll be able to stand up without toppling over like a felled tree.

Eddie sighs and drops his head against Richie’s shoulder before he can disentangle himself. “This is so not how I was planning on doing this.”

“You were _planning_ on—”

“Not _this_ ,” Eddie says, sounding outraged, like he’s not the one who started all this insanity in the first place. “I was going to ask you out, and, and fucking _talk_ to you, and—shut _up_. You with that fucking trophy.”

Richie buries his face in Eddie’s hair, but it doesn’t do much to muffle his giddy, relieved laughter. “So, was I right? World champion?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

“You don’t _know_?” Richie asks. It would be indignant if he could stop laughing long enough to get the words out.

“It wasn’t an unbiased test! I already wanted to have sex with you, it would have been good even if you were terrible at it.”

“But I wasn’t,” Richie says smugly.

Eddie sighs. His hand rubs over Richie’s nape, soothing. “Yeah, okay, fine. You weren’t terrible.”

“You sound so disappointed, man.”

“I just don’t think your ego needs any more help.”

“Well, don’t worry. Maybe next time will suck.” He holds his breath after he says it, waiting, _hoping—_

Eddie’s hand scruffs up through his hair, then cups the back of his head to pull him down into a kiss.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, when they break apart. He’s smiling. “I guess we’ll have to try it again and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr, Twitter, and AO3 as glorious_spoon. Come say hi! :D


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